


in nothing but a touch

by WingsOfTime (orphan_account)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Character Study, Cock Rings, Endearments, Fantasizing, Hair-pulling, Intersex Character, Kinky But Not Too Kinky, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Miqo'te WoL, Other, Relationship Study, Shadowbringers Spoilers, Strap-On, Sweetness, femme-dom but not femdom, male-leaning nb woL, more in the practices than anything, non-painful domination, soft domination, sorry moren, sub!thancred, switch!thancred, thancred has Feelings, thancred reads fanfiction against his will, very light bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 00:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21262370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: It has been too long since Thancred has had this. A whisper that is really a command, bringing him to his knees. Power sapped from him, granting him a vulnerability that he craves but fears to seek.Ikael is soft as spun sugar and twice as sweet, and Thancred would think it impossible to get such a thing from him. Except somehow, that is just what he needs.





	in nothing but a touch

**Author's Note:**

> so this turned out a lot less pwp-y and a lot more sof™ and drizzle-y than i thought... yeah..  
(as always, not in canon with ikael's main verse)

“Moren!” Thancred greets, leaning against one bookshelf among many and crossing his arms. He takes some pleasure in the way the bookkeeper startles. “I think we need to have a chat.”

Moren whirls around, eyes wide. “I-I didn’t write any of them, I swear!” he cries, holding up his hands.

Thancred squints at him. “What?”

“The—the entries. I didn’t submit any of them! I am but a mere record keeper. It is… technically my duty to, ah…” His eyes dart to the side, as if searching for an escape route. Thancred isn’t even blocking him. “… catalogue everything that gets submitted. For archival reasons, you understand.”

He clears his throat nervously, offering Thancred a hesitant smile. Thancred says, “My good man, what in the seven hells are you talking about?”

“The… creative writing entries. Is that not what you are…?” Moren trails off as it becomes evident by Thancred's silence and confused frown that he has no idea of what he speaks. “Er… in the newsletter?”

“Why would I be concerned with some writing competition?” Thancred tilts his head. “Is there something injurious about me in this newsletter of yours?”

“Oh, you really don’t…” Moren pales lightly. “You don’t read the newsletter, do you? This isn’t about that at all.”

“If there is something damaging to my reputation in it, I would like to know.” Thancred offers him a dry smile. “I _usually_ know things—this is somewhat awkward.”

Moren swallows. “Ah… nothing damaging, no. Just, ah…”

Thancred sighs. “Spit it out, please. I don’t have all the time in the world.”

“O-of course! Apologies. So with Norvrandt’s newfound changes in lifestyle resulting from the vanquishing of the Light, a few of us Cabinet members took it upon ourselves to nourish the Crystarium’s nascent interest in literature! It’s quite marvellous. Actually, that Ikael fellow of yours—my personal favourite _Warrior of Darkness_, if I’m being honest; he’s a lovely chap—showing interest in our coll—”

“Moren,” says Thancred.

“A-ah, right. There’s a weekly writing competition. In the newsletter. People are writing stories about you.” Moren stares determinedly at the ground.

“That’s… it?” Thancred frowns. “Why would I mind people chronicling our endeavors?”

Although it isn’t something he is personally used to, especially given his usually subversive nature, it doesn’t seem at all out of the ordinary. It is not as if people hesitate to send in their brush-ins with Ikael to the eager journalists back on the Source. Thancred doesn’t know how many times he’s glimpsed some inane article or other titled with something like, _I met the Warrior of Light at a clothing store in Ul’dah, and you won’t believe what he was wearing!_

Moren… blushes.

“They're not factual stories,” he mumbles to his shoes.

Thancred takes a second to process that. Looks at how red Moren’s face has suddenly become. Thinks about what he is here to ask him about in the first place. Considers his initial reaction to the conversation.

“… Oh,” he says.

“Honestly, most of them are harmless!” Moren babbles as Thancred strides towards him. He starts to back up. “The other ones areveryrareandIkeeptheminaseparatesectionnotavailabletothepublicohwickedwhitepleasedon’thurtme—”

“Relax.” Thancred gifts him his best disarming smile. “You say you keep them? Show me.”

Confusion shines in Moren’s wide eyes. “… What?”

“Show me, if you will grant me the honour of access to your _personal_ stash. It may actually be a shortcut to what I am here to speak to you about.”

“I…” Moren looks absolutely perplexed, but slowly unflattens himself from the bookshelf at his back. “I am sorry, you want to _read_ them? The p…”

He glances around, biting his lip, and then continues in an undertone that absolutely fails to be discreet, “The _pornography_?”

“Yes,” says Thancred.

Moren stares at him. Thancred sighs, having lost quite a bit of his patience by this point. He steps forward with slow and clear purpose, backing Moren into the bookshelves once more.

“Moren,” he says in a low voice. The tip of his tongue darts out over his bottom lip, wetting it, and he lets his eyelids fall shut halfway. “I am going to ask again. Would you be a dear and let me access your,” He pauses meaningfully, leaning in, “restricted section? I would be _ever_ so grateful.”

Moren’s eyes are large as dinner plates. He nods wordlessly, stumbles over to the stairs, rights himself against the railing, and beckons for Thancred to follow.

“They don’t do you justice,” Thancred hears him say hoarsely.

He smiles.

~*~

_The mystel’s small cock bounces against his soft stomach. He arches his back with a wordless cry, eyes squeezing shut. “Uri…anger!” he moans. “Oh, I am going to…”_

Thancred puts the newspaper clipping down with a sigh and picks up the next one. Besides being a woefully inaccurate depiction of the relationships between the lot of them, the majority of the entries are very… basic. Cock goes in, cock comes out after far too short a period of time. Occasionally, a mouth is involved. Moren seems to have a preference for vanilla sex as clearly as he has a preference for men (All sorts of men, of all shapes and sizes). Thank the gods for that—Thancred doesn’t think he’d ever recover from reading erotica of himself and Y'shtola.

“Why does no one use lubricant?” he wonders out loud. Across the room, Moren drops a book. “Do you know how painful anal penetration is without lubricant? You do not want to try it, trust me.”

“I’ll, er, take your word for it!” Moren offers with a hesitant smile.

Thancred leans back in his chair. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” he asks.

Before he can get more than a few stammered words in reply, he continues, “Where’s the kinky bastard Ikael stole that book from hiding, eh? I read that entire thing, you know. It was terrible, but surprisingly avant-garde. Do you have anything more like it?”

“Er, perhaps. What, um.” Moren tucks a lock of dark grey hair behind his ear, which doesn’t quite do anything to hide his fierce blush. “What are you searching for, specifically? The newsletter entries are not very… diverse, but I may have something more, ah, specific amongst my private collection.”

Thancred tilts his head. For a second he considers being defensive about the topic, but it isn’t as if he’s getting anywhere leafing through only what he’s been given. “Anything relating to submission and domination,” he says. “The more educational in nature, the better.”

Moren pauses for a second, his hand clenching in his robes. His blush stretches from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, tinging them a cold pink. He is clearly trying to be professionally helpful despite himself when he answers, “I-I do, actually. If you would wait a moment, please, Thancred.”

And he is off, spine rigid. Thancred gazes after him in some amusement.

(Now he’d be a fun one, if Thancred were still in the habit of deflowering virgins. Sadly, his days are otherwise occupied. And he has since matured. Mostly.)

Moren returns, thumbing through a thick blue volume with another tucked under his arm. “May I ask whether the education is for the, ah, submissive, or…?”

Thancred regards him, laying his arms on the seat rests. “For the dominant,” he says.

Moren blinks a couple of times, then resumes flipping through the tome at a faster pace. “Are you, ah, trying something new, then? I think you may, er, be quite naturally inclined to the role, if I may say so.”

Thancred hums noncommittedly. It doesn’t surprise him that Moren automatically casts him as such, although it is a little amusing. He thinks of Ikael, bright and bashful and awkward. Presumably. Appearances, Thancred knows better than anyone, can be deceiving. He may not look like it, but Thancred is certain the furry bastard has it in him.

“Forgive me for… intruding. Ah…” Moren holds the book out to Thancred, tapping at a point on the page. “This may be what you are looking for.”

Thancred leans forward, eyes skimming over the passage.

_Meanwhile, some submissives prefer a more subservient role. Grab their hair and force them to their knees, and then count out loud how long it takes until they’re visibly aroused. The quicker it takes, the bigger their reward. If you’re not the type to pleasure your submissive, you don’t have to. Find out what excites them; is it praise? Service? Lack of control?_

Thancred licks his lips. _Yes_, he wants to say, but does not. Instead, purposefully resisting the small shiver that wants to jitter down his spine, he takes the book and glances at its cover. _Feise Uin’s Beginner’s Guide to Submission and Domination_, it reads. He frowns, flipping to the first page. The year of publication is not listed.

“Where did you find this?” he asks, glancing up.

The name is Fae. _Uin_, he knows, means “happiness,” or “pleasure.” _Feise_ is unknown to him.

“It was donated by an anonymous benefactor around five years ago,” Moren replies. “Alone, strangely enough. Is it helpful? I have another book, but it is more fictional in nature, and this one seems oddly suited to your needs.”

Thancred rises. “It is. Thank you very much for your help, Moren. By when do you want this back?”

Moren smiles shyly. “Usually, I would give you a month,” he says. “But, ah, no one has asked for anything even similar to this before, and it’s not something that I…. That is to say, you may keep it. Consider it a gift. Although if you see Urianger, perhaps suggest he donate some of his collection? He has quite the wealth of knowledge squirrelled away, and I would deign to see it shared.”

Thancred bows. “I shall. It is the least I can do. And Moren?”

He waits until he has his full attention, then steps forward, slipping on his most promising smirk.

“I don’t need a book to tell me how to be dominant,” he murmurs, curling a finger underneath Moren’s chin. “When you’ve figured yourself out, feel free to come get a taste.”

He turns away with a swirl of his coat. Behind him, there is a loud _thud_ as Moren drops the volume he had tucked underneath his arm.

~*~

There is a certain tact Thancred needs to have while broaching the subject with Ikael. To have him realize the reality of the situation, to have him understand that Thancred is both asking something of him and offering himself _to_ him.

Control over someone is a powerful thing. Thancred had learned long ago that it is not something to be given lightly. He has the scars to show it, both mental and physical. Over the years, he has developed a tendency to only succumb to his more… base desires with strangers, preferably professionals. Strangers do not know you enough to break you. Strangers do not know you enough to care for you, which is far worse.

Strangers do not require anything more than the most simple, superficial level of trust. And that is all that Thancred had been willing to risk giving.

But Thancred is older now, wiser and more experienced. He has a child looking to him for guidance. He has a family of seven to care for, to be cared for by, to depend on. To trust. Trust...

He remembers one day, years ago, in the Waking Sands. He and Urianger had been warm and tipsy, playfully bantering about Thancred's conquests of the week. And Urianger had hooked a finger into Thancred’s choker to lift his head. It had been an innocent gesture, just barely bordering on the indecent, and accompanied, he thinks, by a jest. Yet Thancred had immediately frozen up, stiff as ice.

He had run from his reaction back then. He had been a coward. And he is still a coward, in his own mind, but he is one who will face the truth.

The truth not being that he wants Urianger to slam him against a wall and take him from behind. The man is bloody pretty, and it is a farce that he’s hidden that face from them for so long, but he is also _Urianger_, and Thancred is most definitely not interested in him in that way (Well, not that he’d say no. But there would be pixies laughing at them the entire time. Thancred would come out of the encounter with rabbit ears and a bright pink cock). Ikael, however…

Also pretty. Although everyone is, and Thancred has long since resigned himself to being surrounded. But Ikael has a sharpness to his eyes sometimes, when Thancred tells him _Don’t run off by yourself_ and he replies _Catch me if you can_. When Thancred asks _Which shirt should I wear_ and Ikael presses his hands all over his chest and arms and waist and answers _The red one_ with a surety that makes all the other choices insignificant, when Thancred says _Can we spar_ and Ikael grins with that dangerous twinkle in his eye and says _We can wrestle_ and pins Thancred down with muscular legs that don’t let him move an ilm, reaching for his throat to choke him until _Give yourself up to me, good boy_ and Thancred does, gives everything, goes limp while Ikael reaches down to palm his cock which is already hard _My, my, someone’s enjoying this a little too much_ and takes him out of his trousers to curl his fingers around him, deceptively gentle, before _Don’t come,_ working him with brutal speed and efficiency and Thancred can do naught but take it and gasp in air through the grip around his throat, trying not to spend all over his clothes even though he’s already making a mess on them with how much he’s leaking, and—

Thancred groans, dropping his head against the tiled wall. His fist is already around his cock, of course, because he is a weak, weak man. Water pelts down over his throat, his chest, and if Thancred closes his eyes he can sink back into his fantasy and imagine that it is Ikael pinning him down, teasing him, saying _Touch yourself for me, sweet thing, sweet Thancred, darling Thancred, think of me at least if you’re going to get off in the fucking shower like a teenager before his first night with a girl._

Thancred winces. He really needs to stop overthinking things and just talk to Ikael.

~*~

“—mind that it’s a bit late, because you were still in the shower and I thought I could grab a few things, you know?” The sound of Ikael setting paper bags on the counter. “And I got everything I needed for pancakes! Perfect only when they’re hot! You love my pancakes, yeah?”

“Mmhm.” Moren’s book is a heavy weight on his thighs. Thancred had been thumbing through it before Ikael had come in, after which he had immediately shut it and flipped it upside-down as casually as he’d been able to. Thankfully, Ikael hadn’t noticed in the slightest.

“Thancred?” Ikael’s voice dips in concern. “Are—are you listening? You, ah, like my pancakes, right?”

_Oh gods, Ikael, I adore your pancakes. I adore everything you make, even when you burn it or put too much salt. I even adore your rice, and you make shite rice._ “I do,” Thancred reassures him with a reflexive smile. It softens into genuineness. “Sorry—there’s something weighing on my mind. I’ll tell you about it over the pancakes, if those are strawberries I smell for toppings.”

“They are!” Ikael exclaims, ears perking up to wiggle. He adds, “Okay, _sína_, as long as you are not going to be broody for more than five minutes. No brooding with pancakes!”

He pads into the kitchen and starts to mix the batter, humming a song Thancred recognizes as a mining ditty from Amh Araeng. Thancred stares after him, struck by some passing flight of fancy. Ikael is wearing a long, soft cream tunic, with a little ribbon puffed into a bow nestled above the split for his tail. _Gods_, Thancred thinks, and then, in some despair, _How in Menphina’s name am I going to convince him to do so much as pull my hair?_

“Do you remember our conversation the other day?” he says when Ikael is sitting across from him at the table with syrup dribbling down his chin. “When you wanted to try something new in bed, and attempted to bring it up to me?”

Ikael blinks at him once, green eyes large. He chews, swallows, and says, “Oh, do you want me to fuck you with that lovely red strapped cock you bought?”

Thancred's fork makes a strident noise as it scrapes across his plate. “I—well, yes,” he replies, quickly getting himself together. “But that’s not, shall we say, exclusively what I had in mind. Do you have any experience with, ah, sexual submission?”

Ikael cocks his head. He slowly shakes it, but says, “I know of the practice, but I never found myself drawn to it. Do you want to try it? I… don’t know if I’d like to go beyond getting bossed around a bit, honestly, but I’m always open to trying new things.”

This is territory Thancred expected to tread on. “I do want to try it, although I wasn’t actually intending for you to be the one to take on the submissive role,” he says with an affable smile. He waits a beat to allow Ikael to digest that information, then adds, “I don’t know how open you’d be to domination, Ikael, especially if it is myself who would be on the receiving end. I know the concept may seem intimidating. But trust me when I say you’ve g—”

“Yeah, I could do that. It would work well, I think.” Ikael picks up the last piece of pancake on his plate with his hands. He munches on it as Thancred stares at him in nonplussed silence, temporarily at a loss for words.

Ikael gathers their plates, leaning down to give Thancred a kiss on the cheek before he carries them into the kitchen. He washes them. Comes back.

“So,” he says, dragging his chair next to Thancred's. A smile lifts his cheeks. “You want to submit to me? You want me to ride you like an amaro and give you little pets and treats?”

He giggles. Thancred smiles back, letting it mirror into a chuckle. “Not quite,” he replies, although he shelves that idea for later. “I was thinking more along the lines of…”

Ikael’s hand has gone to his neck. He trails a finger, very casually, along the edge of Thancred's choker, then crooks it inside.

“I always knew this was a sex thing,” he says. He grins. “Ha.”

His eyes meet Thancred's, and the contact is like getting shocked by a gunblade’s recharge.

“Oh! Please don’t stop talking on my account,” he says. He smiles, warmly. His gaze holds. His eyes are sharp.

Thancred is beginning to have a thought, somewhere minuscule and timid at the back of his mind, that Ikael is far, far more dangerous than he had previously thought.

“I… actually brought a book to help you research the subject,” Thancred continues. Ikael’s finger continues to play with his choker, dipping inside, sliding up along the line of his throat. “Such things should not be seriously attempted without the necessary precautions, you understand.”

He is doing a good job of ignoring the low tingle in the pit of his stomach. That is, until Ikael tips his chin up with the heel of his thumb, curling his fingers around the back of his neck. Thancred is painfully, eminently aware of the forefinger lightly resting on the pressure point behind his ear, of the ease in which Ikael could break his jaw or snap his neck or otherwise neutralize him in half a dozen different ways.

And of course Ikael knows, too. _Monk_.

Just like that, Thancred is achingly hard.

Ikael’s pupils flare with interest. His ears swivel forward, large and upright. _At least you’re not a miqo’te, or you’d have a hells of a time suppressing your body language,_ an old, never-forgotten voice echoes in the back of Thancred’s mind. He almost laughs, so absurd is the thought in this moment. Thancred may not have ears and a tail to give away his mood, but right now he is easier to read than a children’s book, he is certain. And he doesn’t even care. He doesn’t _care_.

Ikael smiles at him, faint and sweet. “Did you touch yourself in the bathroom?” he asks softly. “Because I went in there, and I could smell it.”

Thancred swallows. The movement presses against Ikael’s hand, and he withdraws it. Thancred resists the urge to tug it back and seal it around his throat.

“I did,” he confesses.

Ikael’s head tilts. “What were you thinking of?”

“You.” _What, not whom_. “Pinning me down, touching me, saying…” An instinctive verbal withdrawal. Thancred pushes through it. “Saying… kind things.”

That is it, then. Sex he can speak of freely. But tenderness?

Ikael smiles at him, oh so sweetly. He touches his hands to Thancred's thighs, light.

“Spread your legs,” he says without pushing.

Thancred immediately spreads them. _Well, fuck_, he thinks.

Ikael cups the bulge in his trousers without taking the time to work up to it, to trail his fingers along Thancred's inner thigh or tease as he normally would. He lays it there, without squeezing. Says nothing. Simply gazes at Thancred's face.

Thancred swallows. He can feel himself swelling into the touch, ironically responding to the inaction. Ikael’s eyes watch him still, perhaps taking this in. Perhaps cataloguing it for later. Thancred doesn’t know. For once, inconceivably, Ikael is impossible for him to read.

“Are you wearing smalls?” Ikael speaks gently, softly. Wordlessly, Thancred shakes his head.

Ikael tuts. “Expecting something, were you?” he scolds teasingly, although he sounds amused. He says, “I want to touch you. May I?”

Thancred considers, weighing the idea of leaving this conversation as is so they can resettle themselves versus the idea of Ikael taking him out of his trousers, coaxing him with soft touches and gentle praise, telling him _Good, stay still, don’t move unless I tell you to, don’t do anything unless I tell you to, don’t moan don’t come don’t breathe—_

Thancred swallows. Nods.

Ikael’s eyes bend in worry. “Can I get a verbal confirmation?” he asks.

_Of course_. Thancred nearly kicks himself. Safety is paramount in these situations, even for something as seemingly simple as this. “Yes, you can touch me however you like,” he says, and his voice comes out mostly even. “I’ll tell you to stop if I want you to, I promise.”

That seems to be what Ikael was waiting for. His face eases, and he gifts Thancred with a smile. He undoes the laces to his trousers with deft fingers, stroking him once and earning a measured intake of breath.

Then he moves his hands away and slips off his chair, pushing it to the side so he can kneel on the ground with his head between Thancred's knees. He says, “Come up close.”

_Oh_.

Thancred obeys, scooting forward on his chair. He must look ridiculous like this, he thinks, boots and trousers and tunic on but cock out, fully hard, now nudging against Ikael’s lips. The visual only stirs his arousal, the part of him that responds to humiliation reacting even when Ikael is the one on his knees, about to pleasure _him_. The contradiction of it all is almost puzzling.

Ikael breathes, breath hot on Thancred's cock. He must taste like pancakes, Thancred thinks inanely.

Ikael blinks up at him. _He looks so pretty_. “Do you want me to pleasure you?” he asks, soft.

Thancred licks his lips. “Y—” Why is the word catching in his throat? Who is he, Ikael? “Yes.”

The head of his cock is resting on Ikael’s bottom lip, and he can feel the tremble in the soft muscle when he speaks against it. “How? Tell me.”

Dirty talk. Thancred can do dirty talk. He feels oddly relieved (and a little disappointed, but he tamps down on that reaction immediately). “I want you to take me into your mouth,” he says. “Go down as far as—” _I deserve_. “—you like. I want to see your gorgeous lips around my cock.”

Ikael’s tongue slips out to wet those lips. Thancred feels it, barely even a tease, against his slit, and shivers. Ikael says, gently, “That isn’t what I asked, _sína_.”

Thancred's heart skips a beat. _I’m sorry_. “What?”

Ikael says, “I didn’t ask you what you wanted me to do. I asked you _how_ you wanted me to pleasure you.”

There is a silence. Thancred stares at him, cock wet and mouth dry. In the back of his mind, there is that voice again. _Never allow personal feelings to compromise your goal._

Well, it’s too swivving late for that.

Ikael’s ears flick back, and he begins to pull away. Before he can think, Thancred blurts, “I want it to be caring.”

Ikael stops, looks at him. Thancred continues, “I want—you to be kind to me, like you always are. Sweet, but only if I deserve it, because when you say things, I believe them. I want to thank you for that. I want to submit to you. I want to be told that I—” A lump forms in his throat, and he speaks around it, speaks around Ikael getting up with a concerned frown, “—that I am being good enough for you. I _want_ to be good enough for you. I want to please you, be praised by you, be deserving of your love—”

“Shh, shh, Thancred,” Ikael whispers, cupping his cheek. Thancred is crying, he realizes, face all but tightening. He blinks, wetly, and his vision clears. Ikael hushes him, wipes his tears with his thumb and fingers and his lips.

When Thancred drops his head onto Ikael’s shoulder, he feels himself be gently tucked back into his trousers. He closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” Ikael says firmly. “And… you are, Thancred, sweetheart. You are more than good enough for me. Far more. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy. Believe that.”

Thancred inhales shakily. He pulls Ikael close to himself.

“I don’t suppose you can ignore all that and just tie me up, whip me, and call it a day?” he mutters after a minute.

He feels Ikael huff out a chuckle. “No.” His voice is dry.

And damn it all, but Thancred is relieved. “Thank you,” he says into the skin of Ikael’s neck.

Ikael scratches the back of his head. Eventually, he says, “I will read Moren’s book, then. I think after that, we should discuss this a little bit more and establish boundaries. I have an idea of what to do and what not, but I do not feel comfortable without running it all by you.”

Thancred nods. That is probably for the best.

~*~

Ikael comes to him numerous times over the next week with comments, suggestions, and questions. Mostly questions.

“Do you want me to,” he asks once, book held directly up to his face, “erotically ass-phish-i-ate you?”

After a beat in which a rather disturbing mental image flashes through Thancred's mind, he realizes what he is being asked.

“‘Asphyxiate,’” he replies. “It means to choke. Yes.”

Ikael’s ears perk up as he lowers the book. “Can I do it now, to test?” he asks eagerly.

“Uh,” says Thancred.

Another occasion, more memorably, had Ikael finding the passage Moren had pointed out.

“Thancred I need to pull your hair until you get a full erection,” he says without preamble one night. They have just returned to civilization after a rather gruelling fight with a Virtue, and they are all exhausted and desire nothing more but to rest.

Thancred's eyes dart to the inn room door, which Ryne has just left through. “You don’t wait around, do you?”

“Actually I have been waiting for quite a little bit I think.” Ikael spaces out his words carefully and evenly. “But we are finally alone and I would like to pull your hair until you get an erection and make you count also how long it takes and then I will suck you as a reward.”

Thancred unslings his gunblade, grunting as it tugs at a pulled muscle. “Why are you speaking so oddly?”

“I am trying to be even controlled and calm to assure you that I have full control of the situation,” Ikael replies.

Thancred leans forward, dropping his elbows onto his knees. “Part of the suspense—and control—is not telling me what you’ll be doing,” he explains. “We should discuss it beforehand, of course, but when it comes to the act itself, try to keep it a little vague if you can. It adds a… thrill. As long as I’ve agreed to everything involved, there shouldn’t be a threat of boundaries being breached. We’ve talked about hair-pulling already, correct?”

Ikael nods, breathing in an extended breath and letting it out equally long. “Yes we have does the counting part need a discussion also?” he says.

Thancred chuckles. “You can speak normally,” he assures. “No, the counting part does not need a discussion, at least not for me. Allow me to suggest something, if you will. You may tell me, if we were starting a session, ‘I’m going to pull on your hair, and the faster you become aroused, the faster you get your reward.’ Then you could ask me to count, if you like. But you don’t need to tell me what the reward is. For all I know, it could be something as simple as a kiss. The knowledge—and thus the power—is in your hands.”

Ikael looks thoroughly thoughtful as he digests this information. Eventually, he pumps his head in a nod.

“I think I understand,” he says. He blinks once, then steps forward, and his eyes seem to… shift. “What if I said something like: ‘Thancred, I want you to strip naked and touch yourself. I am going to enter you with my fingers, and then I am going to fuck you with them.’”

Another step forward, a curl of his tail. His forefinger lifts Thancred's chin up, slow but at a high enough angle that Thancred can feel the strain. It leaves his throat fully exposed.

Ikael’s gaze burns. “And if you’re a _good_ boy and stay silent throughout the whole thing, let me play with you however I want…” He leans down, lowers his face to Thancred's until it is less than an ilm away. Runs his thumb over his bottom lip.

“Well, I don’t know. I _may_ let you come.”

Then he springs back, clasping his hands behind his back. “Was that too much detail was it good?” he asks eagerly.

Thancred swallows. “It was good,” he says, voice only a touch hoarse. “That would, ah, aptly fall under the category of ‘dirty talk.’”

Ikael looks surprised. “Oh,” he says. “Okay, I will work on saying only the right amount of things. Thank you for your help!”

He darts forward to kiss Thancred on the cheek before scuttling out of the room to go… bother the cook downstairs about what onions she uses in her stew, or something. Thancred is left alone, tired and half hard.

He drops his head into his hands. Ends up staring at his groin. “I know,” he mutters to it pathetically. “I know.”

~*~

Finally, after what Thancred will never admit he deems far too long, Ikael seems to have figured out everything he needs to.

He informs Thancred of this in the absolute worst way possible, of course. That is to say, by crawling snug against him in the middle of the night, whispering, “I’m ready to sexually dominate you now! Can we start tomorrow?”, waiting for Thancred's belated confirmation, and then immediately falling asleep.

Thancred, who hasn’t so much as touched himself since that morning in the shower, is left wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. He has the entire night ahead of him to turn the idea over in his mind, contemplate every way the next day may play out. After half a bell, his imagination has already run to the edges of Norvrandt and back. Ikael, helpfully, is all but tangled up in him, limbs a possessive net around his body. Gods, Thancred wants to be possessed by him.

Materialistically speaking.

The following morning comes after far too long. Ikael pecks him on the cheek, fusses over his hair, and asks him if he still wants to proceeds with his “sex plans.” Yes? Okay can we start now and also what is your safe word?

“Ass-fish-I-ate,” Thancred says. Ikael tuts at him.

“Alright, it is ‘kelpie.’” Bad experience in Il Mheg. Part of the reason why Thancred never removes his coat when he is outside. “And yes, we can start after breakfast.”

Ikael giggles.

They brush their teeth and eat breakfast—gratuitous omelettes Thancred swears Ikael never had time enough in Ishgard to learn to make—in relative silence and contentment. Thancred would be lying if he said that anticipation wasn’t making him eat just that much faster. He cleans up for both of them, then stands there in the middle of the suite, staying still, gooseflesh prickling his bare arms.

Ikael goes up to him, slides his hands over his chest. “Can I wash you?” he asks, leaning in close. Thancred reaches around to scratch at the base of his tail. He nods, and Ikael detaches from him to walk to the bathroom.

“You can speak,” he throws over his shoulder.

Thancred’s lips unseal. Wordlessly, he follows.

Ikael’s definition of “washing” seems to be “spreading his hands all over Thancred’s body really too slowly to be effective, but hey, he supposes he is very clean now, since the soap has had all this time to be absorbed. Is that how soap works?” Still, Thancred isn’t complaining.

“Hair time!” Ikael announces brightly. He fists a hand in Thancred’s hair, tight but with a strong grip. Slowly, he forces him down to his knees.

_Are you going to ask me to count?_ Thancred almost asks. He would snark, but for the sudden fullness of his previously only somewhat awake cock. One, two, and that’s all it takes.

For a second Ikael’s eyes go soft, and he breathes, “Oh,” very, very quietly. Then something firm slams over his gaze, and just like that, he has slipped on a mantle.

He washes Thancred’s hair thoroughly and deceptively gently, the only indication of the nature of his intent the unwavering grip he keeps on his head to move it around. When he has to wash that part of it, his hand skims to the back of Thancred’s neck, just barely touching his skin.

“Get up,” he orders when he is done, soft as silk. Deep underneath it, there is an iron command that the base part of Thancred leaps to respond to.

He all but scrambles to his feet. Ikael coos at him, steadying him so he does not slip. “Easy, easy,” he says. “There is no rush, _sína_. We have all day, yeah? At the end of it, if you are good, I may even fuck you.” He winks.

Thancred barely stops himself from saying, _Good job, that’s what I meant! _Ikael would probably not appreciate it.

Or he may. Odd fellow.

Ikael slides behind him, pressing against him. “Time for this, yeah?” he says. He reaches around to wrap his fingers around Thancred’s cock. He cleans him excruciatingly slowly, squeezing and massaging around the shaft, rolling back the foreskin to tease with as he pushes it over the head. Retracts it. Repeats.

It is the slowest mockery of the sexual act itself. Ikael’s left hand is warm around him, and his right is simply… toying. Tracing around the head of his cock, teasing over the slit. Occasionally drifting down to tease his inner thigh. Thancred is not by rule overly vocal about his own pleasure, but when this continues for a while, he allows himself a small, breathy noise.

Ikael immediately stills. “Be silent,” he commands, just barely loud enough to be heard.

Thancred swallows. He nods, tipping his head back against Ikael’s shoulder. Ikael purrs in approval, giving his cock a lengthy squeeze as a reward.

“Alright,” he says finally. “I think I am done with this part.”

His hands move back. Barely.

“I need to be a little more thorough with the rest, I think,” he says as he starts to fondle Thancred's sac. “I was going too fast.”

Every intimate part of Thancred is given the same agonizingly slow treatment. Ikael even nudges a finger into his entrance, murmuring something about _I need to clean here especially_, and _I know a spell for this, but it feels a little intense._ By the time he is finished, Thancred's eyes are closed, his breathing very purposefully controlled, and he is hard enough to cut diamonds. His eyes flutter open when he hears the shower being shut off, and he sees Ikael step out of it to grab an armful of towels.

“You’re not going to…?” He trails off. His voice is embarrassingly rough.

Ikael glances back. “Oh! I already cleaned myself. Your eyes were closed,” he says. He trots out of the bathroom.

Thancred's eyes dart down to his erection. Back up to Ikael, who is now carefully drying his tail. Slowly, he moves his hand to his cock, wrapping it around. He considers…

“Do not,” Ikael calls without glancing back. “If I even _think_ that you are pleasuring yourself without me, I swear to the gods, Thancred, I will not touch you for the rest of the day.”

Thancred's hand drops. If it is possible, he feels himself quicken even further at those words. He had half been trying to see if he could get away with it, and the fact that Ikael somehow knows if he disobeys, even if he is not looking, and scolds him for it…

Oh, Thancred had been right about him, that is for sure.

He dries himself quickly, then goes to Ikael in the bedroom. “What do you want me to wear?” he asks.

“Your choker, but not much else,” is Ikael’s reply. “Are you still hard? Good. Keep it that way while I go fetch something; touch yourself if you must.”

Thancred does not have to. The image alone of Ikael, still very naked, walking around the room—leaning down, muscles shifting, getting up again and giving Thancred a full and uninterrupted view of his body, his chest, stomach, hips, legs, a tantalizing flash of pink between them—is enough stimulation. Ikael giggles when he notices him staring, tongue between his teeth, and wiggles his ears.

He stalks over, tail curling, something in his hands. It is only when he presses up against Thancred that he realizes what it is—a snug black cock ring, which Ikael very carefully stretches on, first over his length then one testicle at a time.

“Is that too tight?” he asks in concern, ears flexing back. “I’ve got other sizes.”

It is certainly tight enough for Thancred to feel the strain, but it is not painful. He shakes his head, drawing in an even breath. It is the tamest level, as far as restrictions go, but already he can feel the thrill at having it on tingling at the base of his spine. Ikael controls this part of him now.

Ikael smiles. “Good,” he says softly, hooking a finger in Thancred's choker to pull him down for a kiss. He guides it, open-mouthed and sure, and Thancred lets him, giving himself over. Ikael’s other hand curls in the hair at the back of his head, maneuvering to get a better angle. He sucks on Thancred's bottom lip—and then bites, sudden and aggressive. Thancred stifles the noise that wants to escape his mouth at that, his reaction easily shifting to a sudden sharp rise of his chest.

Ikael just barely pulls away, finger still hooked in his choker. “Are you holding yourself back?” he questions with a light frown. “No, that will not do. You will not hide from me, Thancred. Your reactions are not yours now; they are _mine_ and mine alone.”

Thancred's lips part. He stares at Ikael, pulse speeding up. There must be something on his face—despite himself, damn him—because Ikael’s expression softens, all at once.

“I have you,” he says gently, removing the hand from Thancred's hair to cup his cheek. His thumb brushes across his skin under his eye, light but tender. “I’ve got you, _sína_. You do not need to fear, not from me. I will not let you fall.”

Thancred closes his eyes. Swallows.

He feels the gentlest press of lips to his, short and sweet. “If you want this to stop, it will,” Ikael says quietly. “If you want to go in a different direction, I will do that also. But I will say this: If you give me your trust, I will not forsake it.”

Thancred breathes in, out. In again, and he hates that it shudders. “I do not know if I can give you what you want,” he says. He barely recognizes his own voice.

Ikael’s thumb strokes over his lower lip. “All I truly want is what you want to give me. I will not ask any more of you than that.”

In. Out. Thancred processes that, eyes still shut. Slows his breaths. Counts them in seconds.

After eight breaths, Ikael’s touch hesitantly leaves him. He says, a smile wavering in his voice, “Shall I, ah, fetch the silk ties and blindfold instead, then?”

Thancred's eyes open. “Ikael.”

Ikael licks his lips to answer—or ask, or assume, or question—and Thancred kisses him. It is his last act of agency, his last onze of resistance given to Ikael as a gift tied with a rose pink bow. He surrenders himself.

“I am yours,” he whispers as he pulls away.

And just like that, the tight knot of tension in his chest eases. The awareness of the situation washes over him: Ikael has prepared thoroughly. Ikael knows what he is doing. Thancred is in his hands now.

He is safe.

His body relaxes. A feeling of looseness spreads through him, from his chest to the tips to his fingers, and he succumbs to it. It is haziness, and warmth, and compliance. Yes, he is Ikael’s now. Yes, that is how it should be.

Ikael regards him, and a flicker of concern appears in his lovely green eyes. “What is your safe word?” he asks.

“‘Kelpie.’” Thancred does not want this to end, not now when it has not even begun. “I wish to continue. Please.”

Ikael takes a moment to look him over, then finally nods. “Alright.”

He goes to sit on the bed, and Thancred follows him, all but a pet trailing after its master. “Kneel,” Ikael tells him, and Thancred obeys.

He touches his nose to the inside of Ikael’s knee, not moving further if he is not told to. “May I touch you?” he asks.

He hears Ikael’s breathing stutter, a modest reminder that he is new to this. Then a hand pets over Thancred's hair, smoothing it down.

“You may,” Ikael replies.

Thancred presses a kiss to his skin as thanks. His hands begin to travel, tracing over vein and bone and muscle. His fingers brush over a tendon behind Ikael’s knee. Follow a stretch mark along his inner thigh. He does not track the path he draws with his lips, but lets his hands reach where his mouth cannot. Higher, wider, farther, up—

“Stop,” Ikael says. His voice trembles with his warm skin under Thancred's lips, and it is gratifying. “You take too much liberty, I think.”

Cheeky, Thancred nips at his lower thigh, just the barest, gentlest pinch. The reaction is immediate—Ikael pulls him away firmly, his thumb slipped under the back of his choker once more.

“I think that is quite enough freedom I have given you,” he says. He rises, and picks Thancred up—actually lifts him, with shocking ease considering their relative frames—to throw him onto the bed. Thancred lands on his back. He moves to brace himself and sit up, and Ikael pushes him down firmly, curling his nails into his chest.

He sits straddling Thancred's legs. Thancred lifts and crosses his arms above his head with a grin, insolence turning it playful. Ikael looks at him, cocks his head, and says, “I am glad you decided to lay like that, my sweet Thancred, because you will not be moving.”

Thancred wiggles his fingers tauntingly. Ikael only stares at him, expression neutral.

Then he reaches up and carefully closes his hand around Thancred's throat.

“If you move, I stop,” he says, tone delicate as gossamer. “Until you go back to how you were. Rap on the headboard twice, please. Good. Do that if you want this to stop.”

He shuffles down a little, and quite suddenly, begins to fist Thancred's cock.

The first touch after so long without makes him gasp. Ikael speeds up, to a brutal and constant pace, and Thancred's back arches. He is oversensitive from the tie, and the lack of air squeezes his pleasure until it is near painful pinpricks, setting off sparks behind his eyes. He tries to get a hold of himself instinctively, tries to pull himself together so he can weather the sensation—

Ikael lets go of him with both hands. “What did I say about not moving?” he asks.

Thancred blinks rapidly, trying to orient himself. “That you would… stop,” he manages. He is on the verge of apologizing, but Ikael presses a finger to his lips.

“I will do this again,” he says with a smile that is both comforting and perilous. “And as many times more as will be necessary to teach you to listen.”

And then his hands are back, resuming where they left off. This time, however, Thancred is expecting it, and has a second to prepare himself.

He lasts for longer. Ikael once again works him fast, uncaring about delicacy or easing him in, and Thancred forces himself to still. The effort makes his eyes water and his muscles tense, and then Ikael swipes over the head of his cock and his knee jerks involuntarily—

Ikael stops once more.

“Again,” he says after Thancred has barely had time to calm.

He starts again. Thancred steels himself once more, and once more his resistance slowly burns to ash. He is soon trembling with the effort to constrain himself (which thankfully does not seem to count), sweating, eyes rolling back in his skull. There is a low, faint wail coming from somewhere, and the sharper part of Thancred that is only just barely present realizes that it is himself, that a keen is spilling from his lips as the last vestiges of his composure escape him.

“You are so beautiful,” he hears Ikael breathe—hears, but does not register, because Ikael’s hand around him is hot, fast, and Thancred tips almost over the edge—

—and gets pulled back before he can surmount it. He whines, high in his throat, his hips arching as if to chase what has been denied to him. His cock rests against his stomach, heavy and full and without touch, precum leaking from the tip.

“I know, sweetheart,” Ikael murmurs, words thick with comfort. “I know. You will get it in the end, I promise. I think we can move on now. You have been so good for me, yeah? So good.”

He leans down, presses his lips to the skin of Thancred's chest. Thancred holds his head, tries to tug it up so he can have the kiss where it is much more welcome.

“Oh, look at you.” Ikael does not allow him it, instead pulls back to gaze at him from a terrible distance. Thancred licks his lips, just barely tamping down on another noise.

“Please,” he says instead, hoarse. “Please, I…”

Ikael’s face melts, like wax on a candle when its wick is struck. He touches Thancred's face, kisses his lips not with his own but with his thumb, his forefinger. For a dreadful moment Thancred fears he will be denied again, but then Ikael surges forward and locks their mouths together, and twin relief and pleasure sings in his veins.

_I love you_, Thancred wants to whisper in this moment of weakness, where their kiss will consummate the words. He does not know how he means it, but he knows that that does not matter, and that he does. His mind and heart are confused, and does a kiss not seal a deal of the latter? To Ikael it does not, but Thancred has two notions of themselves, and inside him they have intertwined so tightly that he cannot separate them to see which one speaks at any given time.

Perhaps they are one and the same. Perhaps together they make something new. It does not matter. It does not matter. Ikael is with him always.

“Okay,” Ikael says, hushed, when they part. Thancred only gazes at him, at his lips wet and red and swollen. He wonders if his own are as well. “Okay. I want you to do something for me now, alright?”

_Anything_. “I live to please.” _I live to serve you_. Thancred lets his mouth smirk. Ikael smiles back, small but fond.

He helps Thancred sit up, easing him against pillows and bending his knees, and then hands him a familiar pliant bottle of harcot-scented lubricant. He pets over his hair, nuzzling his throat.

“Open yourself up for me,” he murmurs, dragging a hand down his chest.

Thancred's throat bobs in a hard swallow. He trembles as he spills the lubricant into his hand, closing the bottle and simply dropping it as a bite on the jump in his throat makes him shiver. Ikael’s hands spread over him, pushing, exploring. Nails rake down Thancred's abdomen, circle his navel. Back up, over his nipple.

Thancred lifts his hips perhaps a little jerkily, reaching down under himself to circle a wet finger around his entrance. It clenches, sensitive to the touch. Ikael sucks a nipple hard into his mouth and Thancred moans, hand falling and losing its purpose.

Ikael clicks his tongue, swirling it around the nipple once more before leaving it with a kiss and a hot breath. He blows, lightly, and Thancred drops his head back with an open-mouthed noise.

Ikael lifts his head. “Enter yourself,” he orders, tone firm. “I want you to be fucking yourself on your fingers before I am done touching you. Understand?”

Thancred draws in a shuddering breath. He tries again, circling his entrance once more before breaching himself with the tip of his finger.

“What is this silence? I asked you a question. Confirm or let me be done with you.” A sudden grip around his throat, threatening to tighten.

Thancred's eyes widen. “Yes, Ikael,” he gasps.

Ikael smiles and lets him go. “Good boy,” he praises. “See to it that you do not forget your manners again, sweet thing.”

He lightly traces Thancred's jaw with a finger. Thancred nods, and just in case, hastily trips out, “I won’t, Ikael.”

Ikael’s smile turns shrewd at the edges. He places a kiss behind Thancred’s ear, then starts to trail his lips down his neck.

Thancred tries to concentrate on opening himself as he has been told to do. It is difficult, because Ikael’s lips and tongue and teeth down his throat, along his collar, on his nipples—are distracting. His hands are as well, fanning out and sliding over sweat-damp skin, tracing lines and scars, teasing touches. When Thancred has gotten one finger comfortably inserted, one of Ikael’s darts out to teasingly smear the precum seeping from the head of his cock, just a quick swipe along the slit, and he cries out, abrupt and hoarse.

Ikael chuckles. “You’re going too slow,” he whispers against Thancred's navel. “Faster, or I will take you into my mouth and make you weep from the sheer denial of what you cannot achieve.”

That spurs Thancred on, although some part of him laughs at the irony. He slips a second finger inside, curling to reach his prostate—and finds it, wrenching from within his breast a soft cry.

“_There_ we go.” Ikael’s tongue dips into his hipbone. “Darling Thancred, how good you are for me.”

_Darling Thancred_.

Thancred licks his lips open. He fingers himself faster, stretching wider, makes himself whimper and gasp and tremble, in a vain hope to hear such an endearment again.

“Oh, are you trying to please me?” There is a smile in Ikael’s voice. “Sweet Thancred, precious Thancred.”

Thancred thrusts his hand harder, spine arching. He adds a third finger.

Ikael holds him up, pressing them together, chest to chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. “Foolish, precious Thancred. You please me as you always are, _sína_.”

He stops Thancred's response—his train of thought, his breath—with a kiss. Thancred moans into it desperately, seeking nothing but pure sensation. Validation. Ikael takes him over, plundering his mouth.

When he breaks the kiss Thancred is dazed, thoughts not slowing down enough to be anything but fleeting, pumping his fingers into himself almost mindlessly at this point. It nearly hurts to do so; not from pain but from pleasure, how tight his balls are and how heavy his cock rests on his stomach. Somewhere in the back of his mind he is wondering why he has not even spent dryly yet, so great is the pressure in his gut. He wants relief so terribly much, but at the same time the denial of it keeps him going, keeps squeezing bliss into some well at the bottom of his mind that rejoices from it.

Ikael crawls off of him with a reluctant sigh. “Alright,” he says, touching Thancred's fervent hand. “Stop.”

Finally. Thancred withdraws, body trembling in anticipation.

But Ikael does not fetch the hard red strapped cock Thancred had bought for this very occasion. No, instead he tips more lubricant onto his own fingers, and with a pleased hum, plunges them into Thancred.

“This is called a prostate, right?” he wonders out loud as he drives into it relentlessly.

Thancred nearly sobs, but he can do naught but receive. He lays there, slowly falling to pieces, as Ikael thrusts into him at a steady pace, gaze calm and aloof. Receiving naught else is a sweet kind of torture, because although every thrust grinds pleasure into Thancred's mind, he longs for more. For bigger. For fuller.

“Kael…” He is going to fall apart. He cannot even _come_. He cannot do anything.

“Do you want something?” Ikael cocks his head, ears flicking back. “Hm. You are going to have to ask for it, I think.”

“I—” Thancred's voice breaks on a moan. He whimpers, tossing his head, flattening his back against the mattress.

“_Please_,” he groans, and the word is thick and loud. “Please, Twelve above, fu—_ohh—_fuck me, I beg of you.”

“Aw.” Ikael’s hand stops, and Thancred nearly mourns until he remembers that that is what he wants. “That is all I wanted, my darling.”

Thancred sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Keep going,” he pleads. “Keep calling me…”

“My darling.” Ikael leaves him, but comes back with a kiss. “My Thancred.” Leaves again, to do something. Comes back. “My lovely, beautiful Thancred. Dearest to my heart.”

Thancred's eyes squeeze shut. It is not against tears, he tells himself. It is not.

They fly open once more when he feels something hard and cool nudge between his legs. Ikael grabs his hips, biting his lip in concentration as he slowly, _finally_ pushes in. Thancred slows his breathing, taking in the odd, bubbling shape of phallus and how strangely it stretches him.

Strange, but indisputably enjoyable.

“Alright,” Ikael says when he is in up to the hilt. The leather harness draws a flattering outline against his hips, though Thancred can only see the edges of it. “How are you feeling?”

Thancred wets his lips. Clenches around the phallus to see how it feels inside of him. “_Eager_,” he replies.

That makes Ikael smile. Then finally, gratifyingly, he is moving, slow only to test at first and then at a more rapid pace. He holds Thancred's hips firmly, grip strong as steel and twice as unforgiving.

Thancred's fists clench in the bedsheets. “Harder,” he grits out despite the fact that he feels as if he may explode if Ikael obeys. His cock is near painfully taut, at this point flushed a deep, dark red at having been denied for so long. “Or have you suddenly lost your—” A gasp when Ikael thrusts against his sweet spot. “—nerve?”

Ikael’s eyes narrow. He swings Thancred's legs over his shoulders and all but slams into him with jagged, powerful thrusts. The new angle is very deliberate, and Thancred cries out, unable to help himself as the repeated stimulation threatens to shatter him from the inside out.

It is when he starts to keen again, in a soft, continuous whine, that Ikael reaches forwards and, with an impatient hissed word and a flare of aether, breaks the band around Thancred's cock. The sudden rush of blood is uncomfortably near painful, and it makes Thancred's jaw clench and spine tense up. But the sensation is fleeting. Ikael’s eyes flash with something suspiciously unnatural, and Thancred feels an energy within him—release.

One thrust, two—and Thancred's world whites out. The pressure that had built up in him for so long finally releases, and it rushes out, overwhelming him completely.

He collapses when it is done, completely boneless. Ikael pulls out of him as carefully as he can, then begins to clean him up, murmuring lowly and continuously. Thancred does not register what he is saying, but it is a comfort. Here is a touch of cloth against Thancred's chest, where he has made an utter mess. There is a soft press of velvet lips, a hand stroking his forehead.

“I’ve got you,” Ikael says softly when he has finished, cradling Thancred's head to his chest. “I have you, _sína_. You are with me.”

Thancred slumps against him, closing his eyes. After his breathing has mostly returned under his control, he opens them, and asks in a hoarse voice, “What did you do? At the end.”

Ikael’s thumb gently strokes against his shoulder. “Do you remember when I asked you if I could un-align your chakras to prevent their culmination upon stimulation and repress your body’s natural tendencies towards cohesion and sensual alliance?”

Thancred does, very vaguely. He had been trying to sew a hole in his coat by a firepit, and Ikael had come up behind him and started chirping nonsense. “I remember thinking you were having some sort of stroke, yes.”

Ikael’s ears wiggle. “That’s what I did!” he says happily. “Or at least, that’s what I kept up until I removed the tie. So you wouldn’t, uh, release early.”

_Ah. _That is why Thancred did not spend until the very end. “So you just wanted to drive me insane,” he says dryly. “How very compassionate and humane of you.”

Ikael giggles, wrapping his legs around Thancred's hips. His tail flicks up over his stomach, tickling him. Thancred smiles back.

“Ikael,” he says after a long minute of pleasant silence, “Thank you.”

Ikael kisses him on the head. “Thank _you_,” he replies. “I am honoured by the trust you put in me.”

Thancred closes his eyes. He listens to his own breathing. Feels Ikael’s against his back. He needed this.

He’ll have to write Moren a thank-you note. Perhaps he will send him the lubricant as a gift, and purchase something a little less… fruity for himself and Ikael. He is going to reek for the rest of the day.

~*~


End file.
